Eight Minutes
by privatephilosopher
Summary: [EDITED] AU. Nothing has been the same for Santana since her diagnosis.


Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing ideas until I come up with my own.

Some people will say that this reminds them of a certain book that has been made into a certain film that will be released this month (in fact, I think it's today?). Just to be clear, this was _not_ based on that.

A/N: Ladies and ladies! Once promised, and now long-overdue! My re-write!

* * *

00:30

Dr. Sylvester was adamant about it. "Doctors don't have the luxury to hesitate," she said once, while they witnessed a patient's resuscitation. During a scheduled organ transplant she claimed, "Every second we waste is another second our patient loses." And finally, as a corpse was wheeled out of the operating room: "Only the lousiest of us make the mistake of waiting too long."

Becky knew she was right. It had taken her years of training to accept her mentor's statements as facts, and even more years of practice to learn to turn knowledge into habit. It was dangerous for a doctor to assume time was on his or her side. More than death, time was always the enemy.

But here she was now, letting it win.

She could see the two of them through the open door. The patient was turned away from the door, and tucked into her companion, whose hands glided slowly up and down her back. The touches looked deliberate, but light, as they warmed the muscles beneath it. As Becky watched, one hand lifted to run through the patient's dark hair, moving it away from the patient's face. Then lips were pressed gently to a forehead. When the companion pulled back, Becky saw her face clearly, and recognition flashed in her mind.

Brittany Pierce.

Becky stared, noticing the barest movement of Brittany's lips: she was murmuring. Very slowly, she pulled the patient even closer to her body, looking deeply into the patient's face. Whatever she saw there made her lips curve into the sweetest smile.

Cradled, Becky suddenly thought, filled abruptly with a strange sense of longing—cradled like a newborn baby. She wondered briefly what it felt like, to be held like something so precious.

She stood for a moment longer, delaying the inevitable. Finally, after too much time had passed, she lifted her heavy hand and knocked softly on the door panel.

The patient tensed at the interruption. The intrusion. Brittany raised her head, colour and smile leaving her face. Already the room felt colder. "Becky?" Brittany's lips trembled. Becky didn't miss the way she put a hand carefully over the patient's exposed ear. "Is it time?"

Becky nodded. "I'm afraid so."

Brittany blinked the wet sheen away from her eyes. "Just a little longer," she whispered. "Please? Just a little longer."

.oOo.

Brittany's palm is cupped over my ear, but I hear the doctor anyway. Two minutes, she's saying. That's all she can give us. Two minutes, nothing more. This can't be happening. It's too fast, I want to say. It's too soon. There's so much, too much, that I haven't done, and what if this is it? What if—

"Breathe, Santana."

I feel Brittany's hands return to my back. She pulls me to her, until my face is hidden in her shoulder, and my eyes are closed, and all I hear is her breath in my ear. She holds me close to her, guiding me along with her body, until we breathe in time, following a rhythm that makes the world feel slowed.

"I'm here, Santana."

For the past hour or two, she's been talking softly to me. I couldn't bring myself to speak, so she did it for me, punctuating the time with hushed stories of her childhood: young Brittany meeting her first cat, young Brittany performing in her first dance recital, young Brittany on her first day at MIT.

All those defining moments of her life, described to me in vivid detail, until the words were living images I could sink into when I closed my eyes, until I could almost imagine each memory as if it was my own.

No one has ever allowed me into their life like this. No one else has ever taken me by the hand and lead through the mazes of their memory, showing me all the shortcuts and secret passageways. It almost feels too much, to be trusted so completely, to be connected to another person so deeply.

But if this is the end, it would be the perfect way to go.

"Do you know what they say will happen _if_ the sun dies?"

It's a strange question, and the first she's asked me all morning. I shake my head, open my eyes to meet the changing blue of hers. Her hand moves back to my cheek, and her thumb grazes back and forth over my skin. I can feel the motion throughout my body, like her fingers are stroking a fire deep inside, warming me, keeping me alive.

"Well," she breathes, "We wouldn't know the sun died for approximately eight minutes, because…" She shifts closer, and I can feel her warm breath brushing my lips. "That's how long it takes for the sunlight to reach us."

I make a small sound deep in my throat, clearing it. My gaze blurs, and when I speak, my voice shakes. "That's really short."

She nods once, looking at me like there isn't anything else in the world she ever wants to look at again. "Maybe. But for eight minutes, the world would still be bright, and everything would still feel warm." She leans forward slowly, closing the distance between us with aching slowness, until I can feel it in my lips when she continues talking. "And there would be just enough time."

"Enough time for what?"

She smiles. "For this." Her thumb hasn't stopped stroking my cheek, and the fire is turning brighter and brighter, until everything is almost too bright, too warm, too much to take—

Slow and calm, her lips meet mine, her warm breath filling my mouth, her long fingers splaying out across the expanse of my cheek. She presses closer, until there is nothing in the world except this, this moment, this gift. It's the kiss of a lifetime, and it makes me feel, for once, like I have all the time in the world.

Her eyes are indescribably tender when she pulls away, her breathing still even and steady. She looks at me, into me, looking without searching, looking without questioning; looking and seeing, completely. Terrifying, and exhilarating: the elation of being seen and felt and recognized.

"Oh, San." Her fingers wipe my cheeks. I didn't even realize I was crying.

She looks for a moment longer, until something breaks in her eyes. Her eyebrows crease as she looks towards the door.

I don't need to ask what she sees. Instead, I reach out and run my fingers through her yellow hair, just to remember what it feels like, one more time.

My eight minutes have run out.

.oOo.

It feels terrifying to be here, alone in this room full of people.

The doctor asks me to start counting down.

"Ten. Nine. Eight…"

The beeping machines are becoming softer.

"Seven.…Six….."

I try to blink. The world is fading away.

"…Five.…"

Wait. I need to see her one more time.

"…..Four…"

What if?

"Shhh." Her breath in my ear.

Everything has gone.

"I'm here, Santana."

Yellow. Yellow everywhere.

"I love you, my little sun."

The perfect way to go.


End file.
